The Art of Putting it All Together
by greysnyper
Summary: One day he'll be considered a man.


It's knowledge lost in the midst of falling. Each drop teaches him less and less. From the mat to the floor, or from the floor to his feet with Batman's gloves jerking him against gravity and the way his body wants to stay sprawled.

This is never meant as a help, for he's not long to stay on his shaky feet.

"Oooof," he gasps, winded. And he rolls. "Engh."

"That's one of your ribs breaking," he hears, above him. It's matter of factly spoken, though Tim's only going to leave this cave with bruises up and down his side. "Don't ever curl up when you are reduced to ground fighting. What do you know about ground fighting?"

He squints, worn out and failing to pull anything beyond blanks from his mind. "Uh...get...get to my feet? Roll?"

The gloves, pulling him up without a trace of grace.

"_Don't_ get in a situation where you end up ground fighting," growls the voice. "Now prepare."

He can't entirely hide the flinch, though Tim's smart enough to know that he's not saved with or without it. Returning to the _kata_ they have been practicing since sunset, Tim reminds himself to relax but once more discovers that his muscles are made up of static.

He makes himself breathe, because Batman stopped reminding him about it an hour ago. The spots flaring in the sides of his vision--little stars fizzling in teasing, zig-zag dances-- are now reoccurring, but eventually he trusts that they'll leave him alone.

_Don't be impatient,_ he also adds. He'll never learn anything by forcing it and...

Batman is sudden, skipping the transitional period of moving from there to Tim's personal here. The man's weight presses down on Tim's foot trapping the limb to the floor, causing the boy to exhale in an unhappy sharp burst. Tim's mind screams that he now cannot see the figure's other hand.

Bad. _Very_ bad. He wants to twist about to slam an elbow into Batman's side but noting that this is the first thing that springs to his thoughts indicates that Batman's probably waiting for it.

Five minutes ago.

Tim hesitates and then his feet are swept out from under him.

He rolls with his fall, deciding that when he gets to his feet--one burning in protest--he'll widen the distance between them and--

He's somehow pinned again, breathless.

"What did you notice this time?" Batman asks, pressing his weight into Tim's ribs, likely aware of the bruises.

Tim hisses, aware that he's spitting on the mat but also aware that he can't do anything about it. "Ghe..."

"I wasn't moving very fast," Batman says. "But beyond letting me into your circle, what did you notice?"

_Lies! How the hell was that not fa--_

"I..." Tim clenches his eyes, begging the mocking stars for some wisdom. "I panicked."

"You didn't panic," Batman tells him, shifting to a no less comfortable region along Tim's side. He's bending Tim's wrist almost lazily. "You got over panic yesterday morning."

Tim doesn't remember that milestone, but flails for another response. "Did I hesitate?"

"You did," notes Batman. "It kept you from being rash, so we'll hope that that's an improvement. You still died, though. Tell me _why_."

_I'm not good enough,_ he wants to scream, but his voice is cracked and heavy. It's terrifying, being unable to see the man who has him so completely locked down. Tim's learned that when his face meets the floor, he looks away. If he doesn't, Batman digs his nails along the pressure points in Tim's neck and face until he does so. _I'm trained to know the floor._

Batman makes a sound, indicating that Tim's spent all the silence that he deserves.

"You had a weapon," Tim grasps. _Fuck, you are a weapon,_ whimpers his head. "In...that hand. Your...left side?"

The pressure eases but Tim keeps very still. "It wasn't withdrawn until it was out of your sight."

His brow wincing into the texture of the mat, Tim mutters, "I shouldn't have had anything out of my sight."

"Are you frustrated?" Batman asks, shifting in such a way that Tim can almost feel the other leaning over him. Still in control. _Always_ in control. "Is all of what we've covered out of your grasp; impossible to understand?"

It takes all of Tim's remaining effort not to bite through his lip, faithfully keeping his teeth clenched. He hasn't bled on the floor, yet.

_Oh God, and I'll never get the chance._

"Well?" Batman repeats.

"Yes," cries Tim, worried that the man will try to force an answer. "Yes, I'm frustrated!"

There's a pause, Tim tense and awaiting the words that will damage him more than being knocked about on the gym floor. Instructions to pack up and leave, because it's been three weeks and he's not surviving any better.

_Did I seriously think this would be easy?!_

Or had he believed that despite that, he could live up to the challenge...

The bats filtering in and out of the cavern's upper ventilation chatter distantly, as if they could care less about Tim and how frozen his heart feels--playing dead in his ears. Slowly, carefully, Batman takes Tim's arm and lays it flat on the ground, shifting off of the other and rising.

"Then at least I know you're learning. Grab a towel and your notebook and meet me back here in five."

Meekly, Tim tests his arms as he pushes himself up to the _seiza_ position--his knees. Batman's grabbed his own linen and is moving towards the other end of the cave.

Shaking his wrist loose, Tim wonders about how, in all of the things that he had certainly done wrong, that he could had possibly done right.

Perhaps the answer to that will also come in time.


End file.
